


The Accidental Proposal

by bluegrassbaby



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-10 19:03:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18413999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluegrassbaby/pseuds/bluegrassbaby
Summary: In the heat of a minor argument, John lets his guard slip.





	The Accidental Proposal

Dust motes wafted lazily through the beams of late afternoon sunlight, as John industriously shoved the vacuum around the furniture and into the corners of the flat. It had become his routine on Sunday afternoons, as it had been his mother’s, to tidy up in preparation for a busy week. It certainly never occurred to his genius flatmate to clean and with Rosie toddling around and spending the majority of her time putting things into her mouth, someone had to attend to it. It wasn’t a burden, though. He always went into a somewhat mindful place when he cleaned, the automatic movements clearing his mind of other thoughts and concerns. Rosie was downstairs enjoying a snack with Mrs. Hudson and he hummed to music while he buzzed about their flat. His zen moment was rudely interrupted, however, by a lanky detective bursting through their door. 

“John, where are they?” he demanded imperiously, still clad in his scarf and coat, bringing a draft of the crisp spring air with him. John turned off the vacuum, slipped his ear bud from his ear and gave his friend a smile of exaggerated patience. 

“Where is what, Sherlock?” 

“You know what. They were in my pocket and now they’re not. You’ve hidden them again. Or taken them. Tell me you didn’t dispose of them,” he growled, stepping close and glowering at the doctor. John had never feared an angry, blustering Sherlock and wasn’t put off by his attempts at intimidation.

“Ah,“ he said mildly, “ your cigarettes. I don’t know where they went. Those things are going to kill you anyway.” He began to replace his earbud and resume vacuuming, but Sherlock grabbed his arm. 

“John, I need them and I need them now.” The doctor shook his arm free and dropped the vacuum as it seemed that they were going to have a discussion about this, yet again. He sighed Sherlock’s name in a weary manner and moved in to the kitchen. If he wasn’t vacuuming, he could at least accomplish some other housework. He collected tea stained mugs and crumb covered plates from their cluttered table, placed them in the sink and turned on the faucet. 

“John!” his flatmate shouted, yet again. John’s mellow mood was rapidly dissolving and he stuck his head around the corner to bark, 

“What?!” The sight that greeted him, however, gave him a moment’s pause. Sherlock had removed his coat and shoes and stood atop the coffee table, hands on hips, head swiveling around, looking for all previously unseen, surreptitious stashes of cigarettes. He looked like a greek statue, a paragon of beauty in his elegantly tailored, slim trousers, curls tousled, with a pink tinge of pique to his cheeks. For brief spell, John forgot to breathe. 

“You’re not going to find them from up there,” John said after he recovered and turned quickly back to the kitchen before Sherlock could deduce his thoughts. “And now I have to clean that table, again,” he added with affected ire that he hoped would camouflage his discombobulation. John wondered if his flatmate had any idea how often he pushed those kinds of thoughts out of his head. He very much hoped not, because he didn’t want anything to upset the happy household they had created in the past year. John had never imagined that he and his daughter would be so content, and live so much like a family, when they moved in with the great detective. Sherlock’s sharp words, unusual habits, and inconsiderate nature had all softened as John and Rosie insinuated themselves into his home and his heart. Sherlock was as much a part of Rosie’s life as any parent and he helped John as much as any spouse. John hadn’t even considered dating again. His life was full as it was and he had no desire for more companionship or the complications that came with it. 

“John,“ he began, employing the haughty tone he used when implying that John’s intellect is as menial as the rest of the human population. “I smoke outside, I wash my hands before I touch Rosie, I leave my coat in the hall and I have it cleaned every month. Rosie has minimal to no exposure to nicotine. She’s at no risk at all from my habit, so I—“ John abruptly slammed a mug into the sink in irritation and shouted over the running water. Did Sherlock really think that was his sole concern?

“Sherlock, it’s not just Rosie I’m worried about! It’s harming you! I’m planning on living ‘til a ripe old age and I had hoped to do it with you!” The moment the words were out of his mouth, John wished he could pull them out of the air and swallow them back down. He froze, kitchen faucet still running, heat flushing his chest and face. He had exposed himself. There was no possibility that Sherlock would let this slide, ignore the implications of the comment. As he mentally berated himself, the water continued to run, obscuring the sound of Sherlock’s slow footsteps. He startled when the man’s deep voice came from directly behind him and he shut off the water, breathing rapidly. He leaned against the counter on outstretched arms, head down. 

“You want to get old….with me?” Sherlock’s hushed words sounded so hopeful and his voice sounded so small that John had to turn. He owed his best friend honesty in this conversation, whatever the outcome. The detective’s eyes were wide and he appeared somewhat shell-shocked—just as he had when John had told him that he was his best friend. John didn’t trust himself to speak, but managed a nod accompanied by a nervous,

“Mmm hmm.” Sherlock absorbed this, blinked quickly and swallowed. “The rest of your life?” John nodded again, feeling as if he was standing on the precipice of the rest of his life.

“You…you’re proposing—“ At that, John huffed in an anxious laugh. 

“No, I didn’t propose, exactly—“ he started.

“That’s not what I meant…” interrupted Sherlock. “Not that kind of proposal—although it could be construed that way if you’re saying—“

“No, no—“ John started to feel panicky as this conversation quickly devolved into a stammering train wreck of miscommunication. He seized a kitchen towel and wrung it in his hands, just for something to do with them, as he avoided his flatmate’s gaze. 

“John,“ Sherlock stepped into his space and took the towel from his hands. His expression grew soft as he placed his hands on John’s shoulders, long fingers reaching over his shoulder blades. “I want the same,” he said simply, holding his friend’s gaze. It was John’s turn to blink, overwhelmed by surprise, relief and the supernova of rapidly expanding joy in chest. 

“Sherlock, are you sure—“

“Yes,” he said firmly, “Since the day we met.” John suddenly became aware of his own shaking hands, unable to comprehend that what he’d desired for so long was suddenly within reach.

“This means raising a child, this isn’t a small commitment.” Half him was at war with the other—his heart was telling him to stop talking while his mind produced all the ‘buts’ it could conjure. They had been in various states of limbo for nearly the entirety of their relationship. It didn’t seem possible that they could finally be on the same page--that they could be completely happy and at peace.

“We’ve been raising your daughter for a year, John. Yes, I know what it entails and I want to do this. I love her. I love you.” John fell into his friend’s chest and wrapped his arms around his waist, inhaling his scent and pressing tremulous palms into his back, solid and real. Sherlock’s long arms held him tightly and John felt his lips move on the top of his head as he murmured,

“I’ll never smoke another cigarette again,” A bubble of laughter escaped from John and tightened his embrace. 

“That’s a tough promise to make, Sherlock.” Sherlock leaned back without letting go, looking serious again. 

“John, I know that you’re not—“ he closed his eyes briefly before continuing in a rough voice, “I just want you to know that I’m completely happy with whatever form this arrangement….um, our….relationship takes. While I’m completely amenable, I have absolutely no expectation that you—“ His awkward monologue was cut off as John pulled him down and crushed their lips together. They lingered, settling into the moment, lips moving ever so gently against one another, breathing each other’s air, before pulling apart. 

“Do that?” John smiled at Sherlock’s look of wonder. 

“John,” he exhaled and once again brought their lips together, in a slow, heated kiss as he tangled his fingers into short gold strands and pressed himself against his doctor, backing him into the kitchen counter. He felt more than heard John moan into his mouth and then draw back slightly.

“Hey, we have the rest of our lives, remember?” His palms framed Sherlock’s ribs and didn’t allow for any space between them but Sherlock leaned back to look into his friend’s eyes.

“The rest of our lives,” he said, his smile growing wider. “So it was kind of a proposal?” 

John laughed and dropped his gaze bashfully. 

“Alright, yes, it’s a proposal. I had no intention of proposing to you 5 minutes ago, but that doesn’t make any less sincere. Because there’s nothing I want more. Just you and me and Rosie until the end of our days.” 

“Yes, John, yes, a thousand times, yes,“ breathed the detective. “I’ve never been happier.”


End file.
